


I will conquer them (for me and you)

by girlwiththeradishearrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Mentor/Protégé, Older Man/Younger Woman, Teacher-Student Relationship, is basically what im saying, you could be the king but watch the queen conquer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1488061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwiththeradishearrings/pseuds/girlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Tywin requests Sansa be fostered at Casterly Rock in preparation for her rule beside Joffrey after their betrothal is announced. He sees her as a valuable investment for the good of the realm, nothing more.</p><p>She could not learn from a queen, Cersei was not there to teach her the ways a woman ruled, so she learned from Tywin and became a king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I will conquer them (for me and you)

Sansa Stark, upon entering her father's solar, had quickly evaluated its occupants, deeming one a stranger and the other familiar.

Her courtesies had prevented her from going to her father’s side at once, yet her caution towards the stranger allowed her to linger in a polite, yet uncertain, balance between the two. She had been awoken only minutes before, sleepily aroused by a maid and coaxed into her robe and slippers, notified that her father wanted to see her. The maid had told Sansa no more—not because she was withholding information, but because the maid herself was not supplied anything else in order to perform the task.

Her septa’s training had not failed her entirely, even in her sleep-ridden state. Sansa gave a brief, graceful curtsy, accompanied by a drowsy “my lords.” The young girl could not deduce the context of her summons and soon became anxious, fearful she had made some grievous error, or done something very awful to reward her such an appointment.

Keeping her gaze pinned to the floor, she quickly scraped through her head, trying to determine what she had done to afford such treatment. Since the King’s arrival she had been nothing but kind: complimenting the royal children, offering to help Princess Myrcella with her embroidery…she was even cordial to Arya, and had not called her any names despite how frustrating the younger girl could be. Lady Catelyn had said nothing of her manners, but there must have been something… it had to have been an accident, she hadn’t meant anyone any harm…. Oh gods, what had she done?

“Sansa,” Lord Eddard spoke, his tone gentle. Sansa could see exhaustion layered in the creases of his eyes and in the set of his brow, yet he possessed a strict and formal position behind his desk. Sansa recognized this look, knew it meant he was discussing business. “This is Lord Tywin Lannister,” her father stated by way of introduction. “He was just inquiring about Bran,” her father’s voice snagged faintly on his son’s name, and Sansa had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself in front of father’s guest.

Lord Tywin inclined his head slightly; to review her or to acknowledge Lord Eddard’s statement, Sansa could not determine, although she could feel the influence of his gaze on her face. She did not reply, but waited for her father to continue instead.

“In light of recent events, it is essential to gauge as many options as possible,” she could hear her father swallow and steady his breathing before resuming. “Maester Luwin has done a comprehensive check on Bran.” Sansa blinked rapidly, eyes searching for something to focus on as she repressed tears.

Just thinking of her brother made Sansa’s belly swell with such a hardy dose of misery, she felt ill. Her gaze fastened to a wooden direwolf figurine on the margin of her father’s desk, but that only reminded her of Bran and how he used to take it down to play. She quickly latched her focus onto Lord Tywin’s wine glass instead. “We have asked him to examine Bran extensively—many times over—yet he has come to the same conclusion each time….

“It seems—” Lord Stark’s throat tightened around the words. How painful it must have been to dredge them out. “It seems, Sansa… that Bran will never walk again. Maester Luwin says he has lost function of both his legs. That the impact from the fall broke his back…. And he is still very sick, he will need to be a very strong boy now. Do you understand, love?”

Sansa nodded, her head bobbing to her chest as she struggled to restrain the sudden well of tears. Something painful was lodged inside her chest, prodding against her lungs, slowly suffocating her.

Lord Eddard resisted his initial reaction to pull his eldest daughter to him and comfort her, but instead watched solemnly as she fought with a wretched fervor to remain in control. If his heart did not ache with such an intense anguish for his son, Lord Stark would have taken a moment to be proud of his daughter. But he could not manage that feat, not tonight.

Both men allowed Sansa an interval of privacy, Lord Eddard observing her out of the corner of his eyes tenderly while Lord Tywin customarily directed his attentions elsewhere.

Lord Eddard cleared his throat once more. “Bran will need to be cared for, looked after until he gets better.” Sansa nodded again, moisture clinging to her lashes. “But that is not why I have summoned you tonight. Lord Tywin and I had an upstanding agreement that your brother would be fostered at Casterly Rock once he grew of age. Bran would have left with you south and then Lord Tywin would have taken him after the royal party had cleared the Neck.”

Sansa had still not spared a glance to the lord opposite her father. She had seen him only from afar the day of King Robert’s arrival, for he had not come to greet her family as Robert had. She knew he was Queen Cersei’s lord father, that he ruled the West.

She had heard Tywin Lannister’s name several times over the years, the context of which varied. It was usually her father discussing politics with his bannermen, Lord Umber or Lord Karstark, perhaps. The other men had made jokes about the lord and his gold, they called him the Great Lion of the Rock, yet her father had never returned their japes. Once they realized Lord Stark had not returned their sentiments, the lords would cease and grow silent.

Whoever the southern lord was, Sansa knew from her father he was not someone to consider lightly, nor was he worthy of laughter made by simpler men.

Lord Tywin’s forefinger danced along the base of his goblet. In all the time she had been present he had said not a word, not even a brief vocation of condolence, which she thought very odd. Most lords would have said _something_. Sansa studied the subtlety of his movements (she had not removed her gaze from his wine glass since Lord Eddard began speaking of her brother), and listened as her father recounted his supposed plans for Bran, who still lay dormant in his chambers. (Just as he had for the past fortnight.)

 _But he had wanted so badly to be a knight_ , Sansa remembered woefully.

“Sansa, you are aware that King Robert has suggested a betrothal between you and Prince Joffrey?” Her stomach stirred at the mention of the prince. She nodded faintly, eyes peeling away from the wine goblet and the lord’s fingers to meet her father’s concerned gaze.

Septa Mordane had already explained this to her before, had pulled her gently aside one afternoon while she practiced her stiches with Princess Myrcella. Sansa had flushed brightly with excitement at the news and had begun to weep with joy. She had thought it romantic, like something from a hymn.

“If your mother and I were to accept the King’s proposal, it would mean you would wed Joff when you came of age, you would rule by his side.” Hearing her father clarify this made it all the more exhilarating. Lips parted with anticipation, Sansa stared at her father.

“You would be queen.” Tywin Lannister’s voice was deep and out of place in her father’s solar. He did not speak loudly, yet the phrase demanded attention, commanded it—as if the words were meant exclusively for her.

Sansa, startled at the lord’s sudden declaration, forgot herself. From her father, she affixed her stare unto the man. His gaze was direct and all consuming; as if he could deter the worth of her entire being in a single, debilitating glance. Sansa felt exposed, yet oddly empowered beneath his inspection. She straightened her spine. (As if those cold, calculating eyes were culling out some part of her fashioned for a man’s evaluation, some lesson of her septa’s was being fulfilled, at long last.)

She, in turn, considered him as decorum would allow.

Seated in his chair opposite her father, Tywin was regal and purposeful. Even as a visitor in Lord Stark’s solar, his posture was erect and his demeanor unyielding, as if the room and its contents were tailored to accommodate and oblige him. As if _he_ was one receiving _them_. It was not arrogance, Sansa deduced, that made him this way, but rather a natural air of ownership.

He held power in his palms, unflinching.

Sansa wondered if that was what being queen would mean. To sit on a throne as Tywin Lannister sat in her father’s solar, never accepting anything less than the raw and brilliant and blessed; riddling mere mortals their fate as he had just done for her.

_Queen…?_

Feeling suddenly unworthy beneath Lord Tywin’s scrutiny, Sansa averted her eyes. Her flesh quivered as a chill nipped at the base of her neck. She tugged the sleeves of her robe into her fists and sealed her lips together, waiting.

Tywin finished his appraisal, and her ears perked at the southern lord’s imperceptible hum, gruff-sounding into his goblet as he sipped his wine. Was it one of approval?

“His Grace is quite keen on the union. He thinks it would be good for the kingdoms to see a marriage of North and South.” Lord Stark’s voice stirred her back into focus. “If my sister had lived,” _Lyanna_ , Sansa amended to herself as Lord Eddard paused to wade through his memories. _Her name was Lyanna_. “She would have been a Baratheon. King Robert is eager to honor her and believes a marriage between Joffrey and yourself would repair what was… broken by her passing.”

With her father’s solemn explanation, the room lapsed into a brief—yet appropriate—silence.

Sansa blinked inquisitively at Lord Stark. “But, what has this to do with Bran, my lord?”

Lord Tywin rotated the stem of his goblet with three fingers, and when Sansa’s gaze flickered to his face, she thought she glimpsed a small tilt of his lips. But a moment later, the candles caught a breath of air and spasmed, spiriting the expression from Tywin’s face.

“Under the circumstances, we believe it best that Bran remains at Winterfell…he will not be making the journey south at the moon’s turn. Lord Tywin and I have been discussing at great length a replacement ward to be fostered at Casterly Rock. It is important that our family honor the agreement I have made. You understand that, don’t you Sansa?” She nodded, leaning forward subtly. “Rickon is too young and your mother would never allow it. Robb must remain in Winterfell as my heir,” her father makes no mention of Jon Snow and Sansa understands. It would be a grave insult to offer a bastard.

“And Arya?” Sansa inquires with the raising of her brows. How could her father possibly think Arya a suitable ward for Lord Tywin?

Eddard Stark flattened his palms along the bureau’s surface and traced a piece of parchment absentmindedly with his fingertips, looking up to meet her eye with a slow, tired exhale. “Sansa, Lord Tywin has requested that you be fostered in your brother’s place.”

Sansa lips slacken in a pert ‘oh’, surprise flushing through her nerves with pin pricking precision. “W-what?” She murmured, confused. “But… _why_ , father?” Her voice echoed faintly through the room, like a child’s lament. She heard how young she sounded, and regretted the words as they slipped from her mouth. A blush quickly fermented its way into her cheeks, and her lips drooped in a mockery of girlhood. Sansa realized how she must look to them, and clipped her bottom lip in her teeth, embarrassed at her lack of composure. “Forgive me, my lord,” she pardons, unsure whether it’s directed at her father or Lord Tywin.

Lord Tywin gave no indication of having heard her. He simply tapped a single, slender finger on the armrest, as if the entire congregation bored him. Yet, intrigue brewed indiscernibly beneath his heavy lidded stare as he observed the lord and his daughter.

“Because, Sansa, if you are betrothed to Prince Joffrey, you will be queen when he inherits the Iron Throne,” her father expanded. “Lord Tywin believes it is in your best interest to stay at Casterly Rock until you come of age.”

Sansa attempted to mask her objection with dignity, but the sudden change of course was startling. “But, father, I don’t understand…. The Queen told me I would study beneath her in King’s Landing, how can I succeed when I cannot learn from her? Who will show me?” Sansa searched Lord Stark’s face for an answer, but was paid one from Lord Tywin.

“I will have that privilege, Lady Stark.”

Sansa’s brows knit hesitantly together as her mouth tightens apprehensively. She does not know if he is mocking her, and suspects her best action would be silence.

“Of course, you may bring along your Septa to continue your traditional education, or I will have one selected for you upon our arrival in Lannisport, whichever your parents prefer.”

Sansa’s mouth parted in suspension, unaware of how to proceed. The wet, messy pulse of anxiety dripped into her muscles and she finds it hard to form the appropriate words. Sansa tilted her chin to her chest and surveyed the stone beneath her slippers, fingers knotting in a clammy embrace behind her back.

“My lord, I don’t…” her throat cinched in a burning fury, as if she had swallowed hollow air and could not regain breath. Her tongue weighed down in her mouth like parchment.

“We can talk more on the morrow, Sansa. I understand it is much to take in at the moment, with everything that’s happened,” Lord Eddard’s voice was gentle, yet the shock had not cleared from Sansa’s mind. “You may return to your chambers and think upon what we have told you, sweetling.”

Her father stood and wrapped a protective arm around her narrow shoulders. The scent of his furs brushed along her face and some of the tension in her body dissolved. He guided her to the door of his solar, and Sansa had nearly reached the threshold, but—with her hand on the latch—turned to Lord Tywin.

“My lord,” her voice drifted softly across the room, straining slightly with emotion. “What of my wolf?”

Lord Stark’s hand reaffirmed its leading grasp on her back, pressuring assuredly into her shoulder blades. Sansa’s fingers gripped the cold metal, knuckles pale.

“It will be arranged, Lady Stark.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is a precarious passion project! 
> 
> I've had this idea stewing in my head for months, but am uncertain what will come of it. Hopefully I can produce something with actual substance and longevity this time, we'll see... Sorry for any mistakes!
> 
> Thoughts?
> 
> (Title comes from "The Fox" by Nikki & the Dove.)


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